There is no story behind it.
It is split like a second.
It hinges around itself.
It has no future.
It is pinned down to no past.
It’s a pun on the present.
Its a little yellow butterfly.
It has taken these wretched hills
under its wings.
Just a pinch of yellow,
it opens before it closes
and it closes before it o
where is it?
Pictures; Yogesh Kardile at http://www.amazingsahyadri.com
